Principle
by alcyonejonquil
Summary: Raf Orsino is a damn good soldier. Probably a damn good writer, as well, and Tullius might have confidently said so, provided he knew anything at all about such things as writing. Raf's also the love of his life. Too bad. ("How You Appear"-related one-shot.)


Dull ache where his stomach should be. Every time.

_You idiot._

There's no use in telling his heart to stop trying to break free of his chest. It doesn't seem to care how often he finds himself in that man's presence (or that they haven't slept more than a few feet apart in ages, for Stendarr's sake!). It shows no memory, no willingness to get used to it; always the same demented rhythm.

He swallows, one hand poised to knock, the other flat against the rough wood of the barracks door.

"Orsino?"

He's alone, glued to the small table in front of the window; the one he'd already monopolised by the end of his first week here. Overflowing with stacks of tomes, sketches and drafts_—_and sketches of sketches and drafts of drafts—with barely enough usable space left.

His gaze flicks up, then he snarls and shoves at the parchment in front of him, coal skittering across the floor.

"Fucking _shit_!" he grits out full of venom, stretching his head back to stare up at the ceiling. "Sithis and damnation!"

"Glad to see you, too," he replies, moving closer. "Can't help but wonder what I've done to receive such a warm greeting, though."

Orsino throws him a look, gets up and turns to stare out into the courtyard.

"Not everything has to be about you, Tullius."

Ignore it. Ignore.

"Don't I know it," he says with as much levity as he can scrape together. "This garrison's got a definite champion now, and it's certainly not me."

A dismissive groan. Not an easy one to bait, is he?

"I'm fucking stuck again," Orsino grumbles after a lengthy pause. "Tried writing out of order, let it simmer in my head overnight. Put it away to do some menial task_—_I volunteered to help in the kitchens, can you imagine? Then I come back to it: still nothing. The pile of garbage..._line _doesn't want to work, and that's that."

He faces him suddenly, and his eyes are black in the fading light.

"And if I don't make it work, then it's all been a massive waste, since obviously I can't advance the thing without that stanza, so I might as well just," he twitches, "toss it straight into the fire."

Tullius is leaning on the stone wall next to him, a silent comfort. Absolutely the best course of action whenever_ the artist _gets like this.

"Maybe I ought to destroy it all and be done with it. How freeing would that be, for a change?"

Orsino presses his forehead against the cool glass, and Tullius is not getting distracted by the elegantly sculpted lines of his back visible under the thin summer uniform; he is _not_.

"Do I start something new? Will I even have time to get two thoughts together on the road? In the_—_ah!"

Startled, he watches him remove his fists from the windowsill as if burned, looking them over with a hiss.

"Well, I could start, were I able to use a quill right now."

Grabbing him by the forearms in the next heartbeat is as instinctive as breathing.

Knuckles raw, fingers swollen and dark purple. Shoddy bandages.

"What...what in the Gods' name did they have you do in those kitchens? Chop your hands into the stew?!"

"Nah," he replies, shooting a brilliant smile in his direction. "While you were looking over the reports earlier, I showed that louse Gennaro you can't spread High Elf propaganda in this Legion and hope to walk away unscathed. What example does that set for the little'uns? Was supposed to be a clean brawl, but the bastard, being a proper louse, see, managed to get hold of a wooden sword and smack me good before I knocked him out."

"And you haven't said anything? We're moving out tomorrow, how, pray tell, will you be able to hold a weapon like this?"

"Are you going to compose me an admonishing letter, Sergeant?"

He shouldn't sound so breathy (or look so positively _devious_) when asking these kinds of questions. Really, genuinely shouldn't.

"Shut it," he murmurs. "And sit down."

A trifle, to rub a thick layer of salve into his skin and apply fresh wrappings, given how many times they've done that for each other over the years. Still, he tries his damnedest to be gentle, and he's so focused on his task, he requires a few seconds to notice Orsino's started speaking again.

"_—_have anything left to attend to later?"

"Hm?... Well, other than finishing up packing, I don't think so. But, no," he cuts him off evenly, "I won't be helping you solve whatever new poetry dilemma you have going on at the moment, you know I'm shit at it."

"You keep claiming that," the younger Legionnaire says, "when it's so evidently untrue. Listen..."

"Stay still, damn you!"

"All right, all right. Listen, that ballad we did a few months ago, it didn't turn out half-bad, did it? And that was mostly you; two-thirds at the bare minimum, I only made sure the metre was as it should be. You are _not_ shit."

"Thanks, much obliged. That was the night you got me drunk, if you recall."

"Would you have tried it otherwise? It's rather sad, you'd be surprisingly good indeed, yet you don't allow yourself to practise on principle."

That last word is spat like an insult, and he has to resist the urge to flinch. Instead, he heaves a deep sigh, goes to fetch a small healing potion from the shelf and places it on Orsino's table.

"Drink. Then tell me what you want put in your backpack, while we're here."

"Mmh," he lets out, signalling him to wait until he's finished chugging down the liquid. "Already taken care of. Please, if you won't write with me, at least let me show you the parts I'm satisfied with. Also, you owe me a discussion about that paragraph from 'Master Zoaraym's Tale' you've pointed out."

"We need to rest, Raffaele, rest," he groans, exasperated. "Who can say how long we'll be in forced march for? And we'll be lynched if we don't let the lads sleep."

"Storeroom it is, therefore. Come on; an hour, no more, no less."

He agrees, utterly defeated. Were it that all his defeats may prove similarly sweet.

* * *

Then, there is war.

Not _solely war_, however. There are other things, as well.

Towards the beginning, there is a girl near Hackdirt with swarthy skin and eyes the precise colour of leaves in Second Seed before any sliver of a summer drought comes to taint their allure.

There is a girl near Hackdirt who's beaming at the handsome, esteemed Lieutenant Orsino, twisting an iron brand between Tullius' ribs.

There is a girl near Hackdirt who means said lieutenant doesn't share his poems with his friend again.

There is a girl near Hackdirt that Tullius hates.

* * *

"Out of the question!"

The outburst prompts a few rapid blinks from the man on the other side of the room, and if looks could kill, Tullius would have been reduced to a smear of ash by now.

"I beg your pardon?" comes a mild reply. "I believe I misheard you. Could you repeat that?"

"You...you shall be a centurion, as shall I. It's expected, it's fair. Would you rather spend your days leading a fort in the middle of nowhere? Why?"

"The general's offered me a choice. I chose to teach, to guide the very young, the simple. You know this army well, you know I'm one of the few who are actually decent at it. And properly-trained new blood is more essential than ever. The Dominion's mercy will be short-lived, far too much so."

How true is that? How sensible?

His vision begins to blur.

"Special...allowances can be made. I'll make sure you have a personal detachment. Here. The most promising recruits in the Empire. You'll be able to teach to your heart's content."

Raf (he's long ago stopped calling him anything else) turns slightly away and shakes his head gloomily.

"Those very words from your mouth are the reason why I cannot stay, and if you fail to realise it..."

He pauses.

"The fellow who's bound to replace me_—_heard nothing but good things."

"Hardly met him."

Mask rapidly cracking, difficult to maintain.

A smile that fancies itself encouraging slithers across Raf's lips.

"Hence, I ought to take my leave. You have a lot of planning and catching up to do. And I shouldn't keep my men waiting."

A step further to the door, and it's self-flagellation of the highest degree, but Tullius is past the point of minding:

"You'll go searching for her. The peasant girl. Won't you?"

Purely rhetorical; as expected, he receives no answer.

"Farewell. I promise to write to you as often as I can."

"If it's not too much of a bother," he chokes out lividly, regrets it at once.

Scarcely finds the peace to fall asleep at night until the first letter arrives. The sight of it feels like absolution.

The girl near Hackdirt, not quite a girl anymore, gives the newly-appointed captain a daughter, then disappears one morning without any warning. It's _his_ shoulder Raf pours all his bitter tears on, after.

The next years all pass as if in a strange haze. Twenty-three of them.

Skyrim goes up in flames, so he is sent to pick up the pieces.

* * *

There is a girl waiting for him in front of his study, armed with an official-looking document. Not the girl from before, of course. Only the eyes are exactly the same_—_the rest, a subtle blend of features adored and reviled.

She was at Helgen, she claims, though, to be frank, he would've been hard-pressed to notice her then, in all the chaos.

There she is again, dwarfed by the ancient, frozen walls of High Hrothgar.

In either circumstance_, on principle_, he refuses to allow her to hold his gaze.

* * *

**I've just finished posting my longest story yet, and I did NOT expect to jump into this messy prequel-y sort of thing straight away. You can all blame _Quillweave_ and the effects of our wonderful but slightly frantic fic/character discussions on my sleep-deprived brain.**

**Raffaele is none other than the father of Clelia, my F!Dragonborn.**


End file.
